


Per Me

by wasabiandi



Series: Yo y Mis Tres Novios [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love!, But today is not this day..., M/M, Needed more of that!, One day... One day I'll write something longer than 1k...., The good stuff!, Vague-WW2 Vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 07:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14744351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasabiandi/pseuds/wasabiandi
Summary: "He meant to capture the loving, comforting embrace of Brothers worn from war, but instead immortalised the sombre look, the glassy eyes, and furrowed brows, of a man giving up."





	Per Me

The room was damp, dirty and cold. It wasn't comforting, it wasn't welcoming. Yet, it was all things they'd grown accustomed to as the war raged on just outside. It wasn't a luxurious space, barely a room at that. Simply a small concrete box, but compared to the long trenches, it might as well have been a home. 

It was home, at least for now. 

It was home, where they could unite as friends, and as family. It was where they could retreat from strict protocol. A small space where they weren't under every soldier's beady eyes. Where they couldn't feel their leaders' breath on their neck. Nor their citizens fear drum as pressure in their ears. 

It was a place of rest, and a place of care. 

Perched on a termite ridden wooden stool sat a worn soldier. His vaguely tattered, hand patched uniform peeled off, half-hazardously thrown to the side as if it held no significance. Matted, dark brown hair stuck to his forehead, sweat glistening in the candle light that illuminated the small room. 

Prussia watched the soldier tenderly, fingers idly fiddling with the camera in his hands in an attempt to quell his nerves. Every hiss and gasp resonated, echoed, around the concrete confinement, desperate hands reached out to grasp onto something - anything - to ease the throbbing pain. A bullet wound shattered his shoulder; tearing flesh, cutting through muscle and fat, having made it almost all the way through its journey out the other side. 

The young man had been discussing with his brother - if you could call razor sharp words, vulgarity, and crude gestures that of a brotherly discussion - when an opposing soldier had taken the inflicting shot. The battlefield was loud, it was busy, but Prussia had noticed when the young soldier went down.

Veneziano had cried. The pressure of the wound brought the injured body on top of him, blood seeping through clothes and sharp breaths drawn in. Germany hadn't noticed the distress, but Prussia certainly had. 

His heart had stopped instantly. 

He felt it shutter, pulsate, then he was running. He ran through soldiers, over limbs and corpses, slipping on the thick mud coating and ruining his treasured uniform. He ran carelessly, with his long-held militarist attitude broken, his heart splintering.  
Veneziano cried. He used his hands to try to stop the bleeding, painting his fair skin in crimson. His perfect, dainty hands meant for holding charcoal to paper, and oil paint to canvases, trying desperately to save a life. It didn't matter that they held an immortal status, it didn't matter in that moment that there was still a beat of the heart. All that mattered was that Veneziano felt scared, alone, and needed his big brother. He needed the man losing consciousness. 

Prussia had intervened then, he had to. He couldn't sit back and watch his friend, his partner, in pain. He couldn't witness the hot tears falling down dirty cheeks, the broken gasps for the filthy air the trenches were enveloped in. All Prussia could focus on was the heart beat in Romano's chest, still solid, still there. 

They'd hoisted him to the concrete room, and sat Romano down on his wooden stool. Each layer of clothing had been peeled off carefully by shaking, bloody hands, Prussia eyeing the distant glaze in his partners eyes. A wound of such wasn't enough to kill an immortal. A wound of such would've snuffed a mortal out although. It was a concept difficult to grasp.

But now, Prussia had sobered to the dreadful thought - the plaguing what ifs - and watched Veneziano tend to the wound. His hands worked as if handling an infant, softly stroking the flesh before piercing it with the needle. Romano bit on tightly to the leather belt in his mouth, whimpering into it, and holding on to his younger brothers hand - a rare sight, and if it had been under better circumstances - it would've brought a tender smile to the Prussians face. 

How unfortunate that the brotherly affection came with tears, blood, and heartache. 

"Romano... Open your eyes, it's done..." Veneziano cooed softly, gently stroking the sweaty, dirty hair, before placing an affectionate kiss on top. His hands coerced the belt from the others tensed jaw, and his smile was of reassurance. Prussia couldn't help but join in - the smallest smile decorating his worried face. Romano didn't bother looking at his partner, he looked up to his brother. He watched him like a child watched their mother, seeking something- but nothing at the same time. 

Romano sighed gently, muttering appreciation in his mother-tongue. Veneziano merely giggled, and wrapped the scar in the cleanest gauge he could find. 

The two had embraced, and Prussia had decided it was a moment to eternalise. The soft smiles and hushed words wouldn't be visible to the viewer in years time, but the actions spoke loud enough. So he took a picture - one of hundreds he'd taken in this war - and expected to have captured the loving, comforting embrace of Brothers worn from war, but instead immortalised the sombre look, the glassy eyes, and furrowed brows, of a man giving up.

"Oh, Roma-" Veneziano had quipped quickly, the second Romano had flashed a characteristic glare at Prussia, "You actually have a letter! It looks important..." 

The younger Italian had fetched the small envelope, scrawled in familiar handwriting, and sat behind his brother as they read. 

Prussia didn't know who it was from. 

It was probably better that way, both Romano and Prussia had concluded silently, both for different reasons on their own. 

How do you tell your partner you're receiving correspondence from an ex. From an enemy in this war. 

How do you tell your partner you craved this letter all along? 

You don't. Veneziano knew it himself. He kept quiet, and rubbed Romano's back, watching patiently. His heart was breaking, and the words on paper cemented it. 

"Vene?"

"Yes, Romano?"

"I'm going home." 

Prussia sat up, dropping the camera in his hands as Veneziano cried,

"Oh but you can't! You absolutely can not!" He whined, clinging onto Romano's arm, "You simply can't!"

"Get off me you bastard- I am."

"Ro-"

The softness of his actions didn’t go unnoticed, it silenced Veneziano and Prussia immediately. Romano held his brothers hand, and looked him pleadingly in the eyes, "Per favore... per me..." 

And it was then that Prussia knew, that this wasn't a new idea. 

This idea had be festering, picking apart at his beloved for months by now. Had been the secret murmurs between he and Veneziano, the ones that drew Germany insane because he couldn't later pry it out of Italy. The same ones Prussia had dismissed and assured weren't going to affect anyone. Yet here it was, affecting them...

Veneziano stood in defeat, his strides to the door resembling a criminal sentenced to the gallows. "I'll go organise something for you." 

The door shut with a loud clang echoing as the sad man left, leaving the forlorn couple to the damp, cold room filled with silence. 

Prussia walked precariously, as if approaching a wild animal, and gently stroked Romano's hair. What used to have the young man almost purring, didn't even make him move an inch. 

"Romano..." 

He didn't spare him a glance, couldn't, his lips pulled into a snarl. "Mio uomini... mio donne è ragazzi... I can feel it every time I breathe, I can feel when they stop. My idiotic brother, my pathetic boyfriend, chasing dreams that aren't conceivable. I can't defend you anymore." 

"Just wait and see, lieb-" Romano cut Prussia off with a gasp for air, tears falling down reddened cheeks. The glare was flammable, but held deeper emotions than anger. They held the pain that had ebbed away at his very being, and was killing him. 

"We're spared death, but you're killing me. This war is killing my brother and I - and fucking- you're a bastard for thinking I'd love you through this."

Speechless. 

Nothing but the desperate breaths that broke Romano's sobs was heard. Nothing but distant war, and quickened heartbeats. 

Prussia could've fought back, could've yelled and made a scene. He was known for such, but he couldn't. He was pinned under guilt. He was too proud, too blind. 

The chair creaked as Romano stood, "When this war ends. When the world topples again, I won't be here for you Prussia. I won't." 

True to his word, he left. 

He left Prussia alone in the damp, dirty, cold room, with nothing but the distant sounds of the war outside, and a broken heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of a series that'll lead up too Spain/Prussia/Romano/France -  
> I wasn't too happy with this, so if you guys notice any errors or have any criticisms, please let me know! W r e c k m e. I'm a script writer trying to write long fictions.
> 
>  
> 
> The photography thing links directly to something off https://bttplusone.tumblr.com , and is a very importance reoccuring theme. There's a few of those ;)  
> And! The letter is from America, whom is hinted as an ex-boyfriend. I ship Romano with everyone I'm sorry.


End file.
